


We Got Work To Do

by secret_fox



Series: No One Deserves This [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: F/M, Long Form, Original Character - Freeform, Sacrifice, Saving People Hunting Things, Season 2, Self-Doubt, Writer Character, author joins the boys, changing the world, following the show, self-hate, with changes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-26
Updated: 2016-08-26
Packaged: 2018-08-11 02:14:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,298
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7871782
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/secret_fox/pseuds/secret_fox
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An aspiring author gets into some trouble while doing research for a werewolf trilogy. The boys step in just in time to save her, waiting out the night for her to change. Will she prove to be a great ally or simply another person to add to the list of Winchester-caused deaths?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Inky Forever

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The writer runs for her life...until she decides she is to blame for the werewolf chasing her.

I ran. Arms pumping. Lungs screaming. Fast. Well, not very fast. As fast as I could. Which wasn’t fast enough. Gravestones blurred passed. Trees tried to shelter me, but I continued onward. The night sky stretched on through the inky forever above and I wished I could leap up into its stars and away from this fear.

Behind, the monster growled. 

I didn’t glance back. To its maw. To its claws. To its dribbling chin and terrible yellowed eyes. Guilt welled up inside my chest, but there wasn’t any more room around the panic. Breaths came faster, racing my pulse to see which would give out first. 

The worst part of this? I caused it. My fault. All the way. So, if I was going to die, there would be no one else to blame. Of course I started crying. Who wants to die? But what was there left to do but remember my life and know that I had made no difference in this world. I had not touched a single soul with my writing or with charity or even with videos on freakin’ YouTube. I was a failure. I deserved this. 

As if the universe had thrown a leg out to trip me, my toes caught grass. Grass, of all things. I fell forward. Wet grass and soil slushed under my elbows and knees, the side of my face dropping to the mud. The rain from earlier in the day made everything smell more real, vibrant, even in this place of death. 

Death. My death. 

I blinked through tears and tried to stand. 

The wind was knocked from my lungs a second later, claws digging into my shoulder blades. I screamed. Or blacked out. I couldn’t remember the order of events. I just knew that I heard a gunshot, a headstone cracked above me, and the long, knife-like claws left my skin. Cold air drifted over the wounds. I couldn’t move. My bones seemed like jelly and peanut brittle at the same time. The aches were more like burns, sending flames licking up and down my back and arms. 

I was crying. I only knew that because when he found me, he told me to calm down. 

“Hey, listen t’me. Listen. Did it bite you?”

I couldn’t open my eyes. White spots filled my vision even in the darkness of near-death. I was bleeding out. I knew I was. And I had done nothing to prevent it. I had don’t nothing to change the world, to affect anything. I was a failure. 

“Leave me,” I muttered through sobs. 

“What?”

“I deserve this.”

Black finally burned out the white behind my eyelids. Pain eased. My body numbed. I could still hear someone’s voice – low, drawling, like a cowboy or something. Midwestern. The last words I heard were: “No one deserves this.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading this first chapter! This is my first posting of a Supernatural Fanfic anywhere, so thanks! Seriously. Ha.


	2. Can I Put It Back Down?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean explains to the writer what he and Sam do despite Sam's protests.

When I found myself alive, I didn’t know what to think. At first, I simply took in my surroundings. The white ceiling. The burnt orange walls and terrible green blankets clutched in my hands. My fingers. They could move and bend. I could speak. Though raspy. 

“Hello?” I figured I was in some sort of hospital, but further investigation revealed more of a hotel than anything. The musty smell of damp carpet crept up the comforter and I wrinkled my nose. The blankets smelled bad too. I started to peel them off, bones and muscles aching with every movement. “Hello?” I asked again. 

Something thudded in the next room. An obscenity followed. I tried to sit up, but cried out when my back seized and skin stretched against wounds. A second later, I was joined by a man, a stranger, a broad-shoulder type with urgent eyes and a low brow. He tripped, but didn’t fall. 

His pistol led him around the room, searching for some kind of threat. 

I screamed in response. 

“Whoa, whoa, WHOA!” The strange man held up a hand, lowering the gun. “It’s okay, it’s okay, are you hurt?”

I gripped the stinky blankets tight, tears stinging my eyes. I couldn’t cry though. The pain consumed me until I had to straighten my back and press into the pillow. He neared, looming with such a broad figure.

“Hold still, uh…uh…” His eyes searched around, but nothing came of it. “Just don’t move. You’re pretty slashed up.”

I stared up at him, grasped with the panic of a thousand cornered fozes. I was immobile and trapped with this hulking man who looked like he wouldn’t think twice to slit my throat or worse. My voice was lost. I could no longer sense the room around me. We existed in that stare for a long moment until he finally stepped back, freeing my personal bubble of his oil and leather smells. 

“I’m Dean,” he introduced. He added a small wave. 

I didn’t return it. 

His hand fell and his eyes wandered away, as if searching the horrible decor for something to say. It was silent a long while. 

"Were you the one who shot it?" Miraculously I found my voice where he couldn't. I wasn't the engaging type, but given the overflowing confusion in my mind, something had to slip out into reality.

Dean's green eyes flicked back to me. "Yeah," he muttered. His stare flicked behind me. "Not in time though."

My back ached in response. "At least I'm not dead, right?"

He shrugged and stood, his back to me. "If you wanna look at it that way."

Then the motel door opened. My next questions faltered - why was I not in a hospital? Who was he? What happened after I passed out? - when I saw another man enter. He was tall, too tall really, with long enough brown hair to cover his ears and a slant to his eyebrows. He started to speak to Dean, but stopped when he saw me.

His expression read panic as he stepped over, replacing Dean's spot by the bed. "How are you feeling?"

"Uh, okay. I mean, as okay as I can be. With a werewolf attacking me. I mean, yeah..."

The two men exchanged looks -- tight jaws, stern brows -- before the taller of them turned back to me. "You knew about the werewolf?"

"Well yeah," I let out. "That's why I was running from it."

The one standing snorted, crossing his arms. The other shot him a reproachful stare.

"I didn't think they were real," I admitted, gut clenching. Both men turned their eyes on me. My cheeks heated. I wasn't sure why. I guess because I felt I was to blame for bringing the werewolf to the town, though that made no sense. I had just been the first to find it. "Does that mean...other things are real too?"

Simultaneously the men looked down, considered, and sighed. We all shared glances at that. The standing one cleared his throat, stepping forward as if the floor would break right under him if he wasn't careful. His words were measured. "Yes. And no. Most monsters yes do exist."

"Dean--"

"Sammy, she deserves to know."

"She doesn't even know what...Just, one sec." He held up a finger to me and guided Dean to the bathroom, closing the door. I strained to listen, but they spoke in hushed words. 

Monsters were real. I laid my head back on the pillow, my neck aching from the conversation. I'd been attacked by a real monster. And lived. I half-smiled. That was kind of cool I guessed, but not cool enough to be happy about. Reality clouded my thoughts. If monsters were real, that meant they attacked people for real. Like me. 

My eyes flicked to the bathroom door. Dean had been there when I fell unconscious. He'd found me somehow. 

If there were monsters, did that mean there were monster hunters? Like in stories and video games?

The bathroom opened, both men barreling out, their argument spilling out with them. 

"I just think it's best she stay out of this. She doesn't know what this world is. It's safer to keep it that way."

"And you think she's just going to forget what happened?" Dean faced me, nose flaring. "Do you want to be kept in the dark on this?"

I shook my head as much as I could. "No."

"See?"

The other man -- Sammy -- huffed and turned away. "Fine.” He pinched the bridge of his nose, wincing in unseen pain. Dean moved toward him, but Sam put up a hand. “I’m fine…” 

"Sam--" Dean said, but the taller man had already straightened his jacket, given me a side glance, and marched to the motel door. He left us alone, his anger settling in the air like white noise. Dean turned, almost facing me, almost facing the door. He seemed torn. 

"What’s…up with him?"

Dean sighed, running a hand down his face. "Uh....nothing. Nothing for you to worry about."

"I already said I don't want to be in the dark," I reminded.

His green eyes flashed up and I knew he saw my sincerity. And my fear. But I had always needed to face my fears, watch them happen. I hated chance. I hated the unknown. Even though I hated needles, I had to watch every time I had a shot at the doctor's office. I forced myself to face the anxiety for I knew that once I hit the climax, the relief would come sooner. 

I had a bad feeling that wasn't going to happen here though.

Dean placed his hands on his hips. "This world’s…sorta…fucked up."

I blinked, no relief soothing my tightening chest. "Oh."

“Sammy’s…he’s…he’s recovering from something. Another werewolf uh, situation.”

Glancing to the door, I wanted to send my apologies to Sam. He seemed unscathed, but he did wear a long sleeve plaid shirt. Did he have wounds like mine? Reminded of the claw marks on my back, I closed my eyes and tried to think past the wave of pain. 

Dean sat on the bed across from me and explained that he and his brother -- Sam -- had been following the werewolf for three towns, his pack already taken out. The wolf that had attacked me had been the alpha, a powerful creature. He had hoped to start his pack over here in Missouri, snatch a few small-towners throughout the next few weeks and turn them all by the next full moon. What he hadn't counted on was a young woman getting in his way.

I shifted on the bed, regretting it immediately with a wince. Every inch of my back stung like boiling water had been poured down my spine. Dean moved to help, but didn't have many options on what he could do. "I'm fine," I managed to say and he sat back down.

"What were you doin' downtown anyway?" he asked. "We saw you the day before at the library."

I squinted. "You did?"

"Yeah. You were lookin' up the same articles as Sam."

I almost shifted again, but stopped myself in time. I hated being stuck in this bed, covered in itchy, but warm blankets and unable to pace like I normally would when anxious. Throughout the entire conversation, I kept hearing Dean's words. This world's sorta…fucked up. Fucked up. Sort of. I wanted to ask, but he had his own questions.

"I was just looking into legends, unsolved cases that matched up with a novel I'm writing. I wanted to use true events to make it...scarier." I closed my eyes. "Kinda feels like I caused this."

"You didn't," Dean said decisively. "You just...lifted a rug that had a lot of shit swept under it."

"Can I put it back down?"

He narrowed his eyes. "Thought you wanted to know."

"Yeah, but now I know." I sighed, shaking my head the little amount I could. "No, I do want to know. I guess part of me wishes I didn't, wishes I wasn't so curious. 'Cause this isn't some story. I mean I was attacked. It's all real. It's not a book."

"So...are you a writer or something?"

"Yeah. Trying to be. I thought bringing authentic research and crime investigations would spur me into finally finishing this book. But...it just made me bedridden."

"We can head to the hospital, if you think you need it."

I stiffened. "Why didn't you take me before?"

Dean paused and then stood, then turned away, then back. "We had to make sure you wouldn't turn."

"Oh."

"But the moon cycle has passed. And you didn't wolf out on us."

"That's good."

He fell silent after that. And I allowed it. My head was buzzing so fast my tongue went numb. The question bloomed in the front of my mind again. Why didn’t Sam want me to know about the truth? 

"To avoid unwanted questions," Dean said after a moment, "We could take you to a friend of ours. He'll stitch you up good."

His grammar faux pas lifted me from my anxiety, only for a moment, and I squinted and corrected him. “Well.”

The older man rolled his eyes. "You are a writer."

"Yes. I am." His acknowledgement felt good despite the circumstances of him saying it. Not many people back home took me seriously about this writing career thing. He barely knew me and had already stuck it on to my identity. That had to mean something good, that I was moving in the right direction. "How far away is your friend?"

Dean smiled, a small smile, but a smile nonetheless. It looked good on him. His ears perked back and his cheekbones stood out. I could tell that he didn't smile often though. The expression wilted after only a few bright seconds. "Let's worry about getting you in the car first."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks you for reading! More on the way soon, promises ;)


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